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A Day at the Rock Hound: A Gentleman's Ride Through Hell
When the alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., I briefly considered the merits of staying in bed. But alas, duty called. The Rock Hound rally awaited—a 140 km expedition across Ontario’s most unwelcoming terrain. My companions for this endeavor were the usual suspects: Arthur, the ever-enthusiastic rider; Trevor, our nimble technician; and the twins, Clyde and Kevin, who seemed to revel in finding new ways to disagree.
Chapman’s Passage: A Trial by Terrain
The forecast had ominously suggested rain of biblical proportions, the sort that would turn even a simple country lane into a quagmire. As we stood under the Red Bull Arch, engines idling and rain threatening overhead, the sense of foreboding was palpable. The first leg, charmingly named Chapman’s Passage, was designed to test one’s resolve before the real fun began.
This trail was a bit like the starter course at a fine restaurant—meant to tease the palate with what’s to come, but not so overwhelming as to ruin the appetite. Except, in this case, the chef was a sadist, and the starter was a mix of slippery rocks, treacherous roots, and mud pits that seemed bottomless. By the time we hit the first water crossing, the carnage was evident. Riders, who only moments ago had looked confident, were now mired in mud, their bikes resembling rather expensive anchors.
We pressed on, trying not to dwell on the fact that there were still 138 km left to endure.
Victoria’s Secret: A Brief Lesson in Humility
Next up was Victoria’s Secret, and no, it wasn’t a lingerie shop offering respite. This was a trail where the term “grip” became more of an abstract concept. The fast-flowing sections lulled us into a false sense of competence before we were brought sharply back to reality by short, rocky climbs. It was here we encountered the first of many weeping riders. At this point, I began to wonder if we had somehow stumbled upon a therapy session for broken spirits rather than a rally.
Logger’s Breakfast: The Morning After
After a brief and rather uneventful transit section, we arrived at Logger’s Breakfast, a trail so tight and technical that it felt as though we were threading a needle. The history of this area was rather grim—a tornado had ripped through years ago, leaving behind a chaotic tangle of fallen trees. The new trail, freshly cut through this mess, was a labyrinth of obstacles.
It wasn’t long before we encountered our first log jam. A broken bike blocked the trail, creating a queue of increasingly frustrated riders. Clyde, ever the altruist, took it upon himself to clear the blockage. This was met with a cheer from the assembled masses, as if he were some sort of hero. Personally, I was more concerned with whether my boots were still waterproof. Spoiler: they weren’t.
Hunter’s Surprise: A Misleading Name
The next trail, Hunter’s Surprise, sounded almost pleasant. It was anything but. It began with a few fast, flowing sections that were, frankly, too good to be true. Then came Roadside Attraction, a trail that should have been named “Exercise in Futility.” Slippery rocks, roots that appeared out of nowhere, and mud holes that could swallow a bike whole. By now, my boots were less “boots” and more “portable ponds.”
It was during one of these delightful water crossings that Trevor’s KTM 250 Freeride decided it had had enough. The little bike, usually so sprightly, had met its match in the deep water. The process of reviving it was tedious, involving much wringing of filters and muttering of curses. Eventually, it sputtered back to life, and with Clyde fretting about missing lunch, we were back on our way.
High Voltage: Shocks and Aftershocks
We arrived at High Voltage, a trail that lived up to its name. Narrow, single-track, and lined with trees that seemed to close in on you like overzealous spectators, it was a test of nerve as much as skill. The rocky outcrops were particularly unpleasant, causing more than one involuntary dismount. Arthur found himself tipping over a few times, though he bore it with the resigned dignity of someone who had long since accepted the day’s fate.
Lunch was a brief respite—a catered affair featuring beef tacos that were surprisingly good, considering the circumstances. We watched, bemused, as other riders attempted a nearby vertical rock climb. The success rate was depressingly low, and after a few minutes, we decided it was time to move on.
The Bypass That Went South
In the interest of time, we opted for a bypass. The GPS, that fickle mistress, guided us onto what started as a sandy road but soon transformed into a river. We had unintentionally discovered the Rock Hound River, and Trevor’s bike once again decided to take a swim. The rain, which had been holding off, now unleashed itself upon us with gusto. I found myself questioning not just our navigation, but our sanity.
Arthur, ever resourceful, towed Trevor’s bike until it sputtered back to life, accompanied by a cloud of white smoke that could have signaled a papal election. We doubled back to High Voltage Part Two, which was even more challenging under the now relentless rain. The trail called Up, Up and Away proved to be an apt name, as it led us straight into yet another mud hole. Arthur, with his glasses fogged and his visibility reduced to near-zero, managed to bury his bike up to the seat. The twins, of course, couldn’t agree on how to extract it, leading to much brotherly bickering and very little progress. In the end, it took six of us to hoist the bike out and get moving again.
Dry Feet: The Final Humiliation
By now, the organizers were advising against certain trails, which we took as a sign to head for the nearest “bypass.” Unfortunately, the bypasses were proving harder than the main course. Kevin’s front tire, which had a particular dislike for roots, kept slipping. His repeated cry of “I need a Gummy!” became something of a rallying call, though no one was quite sure what he meant.
Eventually, we reached a trail called Dry Feet. To our surprise, it lived up to its name, offering a brief reprieve from the waterlogged hell we’d been enduring. But, of course, it was still the Rock Hound, so the dry trail was littered with steep climbs and rocky descents that demanded our full attention.
At the end of this trail, we found ourselves on a dirt road, supposedly the final stretch before returning to base camp. However, the GPS seemed to have other ideas, leading us miles off course. After much confusion and a bit of backtracking, we encountered a rally official who assured us we were finally heading in the right direction.
The Road Home: A Bitter Sweet Victory
As we neared the finish line, we saw a massive BMW GS 1200 emerge from a particularly gnarly section of trail. How it made it through, I’ll never know. The final 40 km were a transit section—a winding dirt road back to base camp. The rain was unrelenting, but so was our sense of accomplishment. We had faced the Rock Hound and, against all odds, we had survived.
Crossing the finish line under the Red Bull Arch, we felt a mix of relief and disbelief. Arthur, Trevor, Clyde, and Kevin—four mud-caked, waterlogged souls—had completed the rally. For all our troubles, the organizers held a raffle. Kevin won a glass, Trevor a bag of coffee, and as for Arthur and Clyde, they won nothing at all. But that’s how it goes sometimes—victory is its own reward, even if it comes with soggy boots and a persistent sense that you’ve just done something very, very foolish.
